Destiny's Trickster
by phyreblade
Summary: Khyriel Phyre can count the number of people he truly cares for using the simplest numbers. Outside that circle, only don't offend his loyalty to the Empire that shields them and he won't seek your destruction. This is my take on the Imperial Agent story in the SWTOR universe, with a male Agent w/ Raina Temple romance. Other characters and classes will make appearances. Rated M
1. Chapter 1 -- Prologue

**A brief apology, here. If I could, I would hold off on posting this story for some time to come. This story is designed to provide insights and clarifications that come sometimes closer towards the endings in some of my prior stories, two of which are still very much works in progress. However, with an upcoming expansion in the works, I wanted to respect Bioware's story enough, to introduce the story of one of my absolute favorite characters, now and not too late. I will continue to work on all my character-focused stories in the weeks and months to come, I promise you all.**

 **Please NOTE: Khyriel Phyre is my darkest character. He reached darkside 5 very soon into Chapter 3 and well before the conclusion of the SWTOR character story for the Imperial Agent. Not that every one of his choices was darkside! He sometimes surprised even me as I was going along. I can't count how many times in the course of playing his story, that I had to hit "escape" because I could tell that "just isn't what Khy would do", shrug. But he _is_ very, very dangerous, can be incredibly ruthless and cruel and manipulative - for those who've played D &D a time or two, he's my lawful evil guy. An outright assassin, if you will.**

 **That means there's loads of violence, some really ugly events including rape and child abuse, and tons of strong language in the course of this tale. Those can be sensitive subjects, so I wanted to be honest right upfront and just give everyone some heads-up.**

 **Finally, please remember I have no claim to any of Bioware's story-telling. They're writers of some great stories! And all the characters that I describe in this story ultimately belong to Bioware and Electronic Arts. Kudos to them for such amazing work! You guys rock!**

 **With all that said ... let me introduce you to my Khyriel, now.**

* * *

Lucian believed in control. That a man's control conveyed strength and sheer, unmitigated capability, no matter the challenge facing him. It's when he lost control, that a man was weak, when he became ineffectual and inept. That's when he could be ruined, brought low and finally, ultimately broken. Lucian had always refused to give anyone that much ability over him. Ever.

It's why he stood there now, straight and tall in front of the dark surface of the rain-saturated windows overlooking the cityscape. Kaas City stretched out in a wide expanse, with rain that fell steadily down over the reaching buildings. Lights from far-off windows twinkled against the dark gloom of the sky, until the structures looked like burning fingers clawing out from the confines of the planet itself. Like a struggle for mastery over the elements themselves, wrangled from the harsh, wet climate and from the twisted creatures that called it home. Driven to prove their own power and strength, it seemed like. And damn anyone who tried holding them down, holding them back. The landscape itself was testament to those values of strength and control, it seemed.

Lucian inhaled slowly, concentrating on the rhythm of his own breaths. He even counted them, one after another, and slowly. Fighting to preserve his balance, his hard-wrought sense of purpose and design, because he refused to lose that much of himself to her right then. He only needed enough balance to finish the night's business. Just enough, to bring him closer to the end of this tired night, and the goal she was forcing on him. Balance, so that she wouldn't win against him even after she achieved her ends, here. She wouldn't be singing to him of some win, wouldn't crow with pleasure over this night, he'd see to that. Bad enough she had this much power over him, that she gained this much from him. He hated it!

No. His balance and control, his mastery over himself and what was of real value to him – none of those things had anything to do with her. _She_ was nothing, even! Just … nothing. And he would see to it that she understood that much, before it was done for good, too. That was the promise he gave himself, that helped ground him, center him finally. It was just enough, at least.

The bitch.

"Let's get on with this, dear husband. You know what will happen otherwise."

Lucian slowly dragged in another long breath, before slowly exhaling. He remarked, almost idly so that she wouldn't know how damned agitated he was, that she'd won another moment's upset from him. But he didn't bother hiding his disgust, though. If he could cram it straight down her slender throat, in fact, that's what he would do without even blinking. "If I were you, wife, I'd forgo speaking or making any sound. If you value anything from that part of my anatomy, mind you. Because I swear, hearing you _breathe_ makes both my testicles shrivel in the most vivid determination to avoid you."

"Your crudeness only belies the attractiveness of your heritage, Lucian. I certainly wouldn't care to lie here on this bed for anything else, mind you. You're nothing more than some stud animal, a base thing. That is your sole value." Karen's voice continued grating on every nerve he possessed. He would think she'd abide by whatever warnings he provided, if only to get this evening's … work finished, at least. But she kept making atrocious _noise_. How in chaos' name would he manage this, if he couldn't maintain a semblance of readiness, even?

His daughter's face swam through his mind suddenly, so small and gorgeously perfect. The way her eyes would shine, like the moons that rose over the darkest edges of the night sky. She was watchful and observant, even at her tender age. Not even a year old and she was already exacting in her demands, so that items moved, danced in her gaze while she lay there watching. Like she was trying to prove to her own self she was capable of such remarkable feats, of awesome control over the magnificent virtue of the Force that resided in her small body. Karen had actually delighted loudly over the tiny infant, "She'll be incredible! They'll sing her name, only watch and you'll see for yourself! My daughter!"

But Lucian just laughed, "No. Look at those eyes, those perfect little brows all scrunched up just so. She's most obviously _my_ daughter, Karen. You can't even find some smallest hint of you in her."

"I hate you so, Lucian! Hate you."

"That was what you decided months ago, though. _I_ don't care so much about you, that I'd even bother hating you."

Now, though. _Now_ Lucian hated her. He hated her for forcing him this low, that he had to even walk into this room let alone crawl across her bare body there on the bed. He hated her for every word she uttered, every mocking glance she tossed him that he'd been forced here. Most of all he hated her for the fear that twisted his guts into the worst knots, the fear that bothered him every time he thought how he might lose his daughter if he didn't give Karen what she demanded, if she did as she'd threatened and took his own girl child so far from him. Karen, who stamped her prettiest, daintiest foot on the floor right there in front of his desk as she swore at him, "Cross me and by the time you manage to convince some stupid law official you can even see her again Lusiel will have already been crafted, terribly taught how to utterly despise you. With marks aplenty across her backside so that it sticks firmly in her mind! Don't think we can't do it, Lucian! She will be made as I see fit, and there will be nothing you can do in time. Nothing!"

He considered yet again the chance he might succeed in flat out killing the bitch. There were any number of means he was dreadfully familiar with, even people who would help him do it, given the asking. Favors he was owed, friends who would look the other way. Or they might lie on his behalf, their respect for him was that great. But the risk was tremendous, considering the vulturous slime that was her family. Ah, Pella Hejaran – just as cruel as her sister but better in control of her senses. No, Pella would never stop looking for answers, would look and look. She might only kill him outright, for the possibility alone and without any proof. Not that he cared so much for his own neck, because the uniform he wore so proudly showed more than anything the preparedness he felt considering his end.

But she would look. And eventually she would find the truth. She would find Tamerie. And she would find his Kastiel, who was just as tiny, beautiful and precious as her sister. His own Kastiel, that the Empire would call lesser, lacking, for being born from a slave woman without any hint of the force ability her older sister demonstrated with every wisp of air she loosed. And that even before they called her bastard. But Kastiel was his joy of a girl, all perfectly bright, whipcord strong with a mind that snapped and twisted behind her dark eyes that followed him whenever he managed to steal away to lose himself in them.

His daughters, his children! Protecting them was every thing important, more precious a task than the duty he offered the Empire, more than anything! He could not risk them, not now or ever! Without them, there was nothing worth going ahead for, nothing worth having in anything of his world. He would do anything to keep from losing them. Even this.

Lucian hung his head down, methodically pulling against the sleeve of the pale white shirt he was wearing. Moving mechanically - by rote, just to get the task completed. He pushed back the fabric of his sleeve until it was bunched solidly over his elbow and he could see the arteries and veins that criss-crossed over his forearm in pure red-purple health. Lucian ignored Karen's huffed impatience from behind him, her cloying presence with that indelibly sweet scent she preferred sprayed all over herself. He swallowed, rather, refusing to spew the bile that rose in his throat as he depressed the injector against the tender skin of his arm, felt the warm rush of the medicine through his muscles and blood. Lucian sighed as his body tightened. His systems thrummed, and his groin became hot and heavy, ready. And Lucian dropped his head down, whispering so quietly that even the Force itself couldn't have won his deepest pain right then, "Tamerie."

Karen hissed suddenly, loudly, "You'll do it, Lucian. Don't think to be intransient at this point! It won't be you who pays the price this time, I swear it! I will have another one like her, I will! Everyone will know how great I am, how important. You're nothing but the seed that I need, that's all, damn you!"

Lucian turned blindly, his gaze focused on the shadowed recesses of the room. Not the beautiful woman sprawled naked across the plush cushions of the bed, the long tresses of her beautiful blonde hair spread in a waterfall all around her. He stepped closer to the bed, glanced down over her splayed limbs, the pale smoothness of her thighs spread wide for him. He moved slowly, not looking at her face, her eyes. Like a machine, he thought. Lucian grunted, reached out to grab the soft flesh under both her knees so he could roughly yank her towards the edge of the bed. Karen gasped as her hands flew out to scrabble over the blankets for desperate purchase, but he didn't care enough to soothe her sudden fear. Not even when she whimpered, worried he'd be abrupt, without care for her comfort. Did she imagine crazily that he would bother to stop long enough to ensure she enjoyed a single ounce of pleasure from the act? The thrill of hatred warmed his stomach again, burned through everything as he finally glared down at her. And he thrilled when he saw her staring back at him, scared and shaking.

She should be, he thought. Lucian growled down towards her, his fingers biting into the sides of her thighs, "I told you. Shut. Up. I can not stand to listen to a single sound coming from you, Karen. Only be gratified I'm finally hard enough to get this done, rather."

Karen narrowed her glorious silver-blue eyes back up at him. Diamond eyes, he once called them. He hated every glance she tossed his way, now, until he almost thought how much he'd like to carve them from her face and give them over to one of the pirate crews that hunted the damn gemstones at every chance. He far preferred the sweet looks Tamerie gave him, the ocean-bright blue eyes that had enchanted him the first time she stumbled against him and, startled, looked up when he caught her so she didn't fall. There was real life in Tamerie's eyes. Not the cold, human-less threat that sliced him every time Karen so much as looked in his direction. How deeply he hated Karen, hated her …

"You speak like you have some choice, here. You will do as I say, Lucian! You'll do it, you'll give me what I want! Hurry and do it! Do it, damn you!" She raged enough that spittle actually formed at the corner of her mouth. She finally looked as ugly as he thought her. He looked away from her face, focused on the parts he needed to join. Mechanical motions, like a machine. Like a machine. That was the refrain in his head as he moved into position. Because he couldn't stand to remember how it was he was forced to do this. Forced! She was forcing him! Damn her to chaos and back again, so that he could send her there all over again! Damn her to every single hell imagined on every world!

Lucian sneered coldly down into her cold, angry eyes. "You will never be any sort of mother to this child, Karen. You think I'm some stud to seed? Maybe. But you're little more than a box that will hold the child long enough he's big enough to rip himself loose of your nasty grip! They will always, always be _mine_. Never yours!" His hands tightened against the soft skin behind her knees, until she could feel bruises actually forming, there. Her eyes flew wide open and she screamed in terrified horror at the deadly promise in his gaze. And that was before he finally rammed himself inside of her as hard as he possibly could.

* * *

He loved him, the moment that his son opened his eyes to blink up at him from the cradle of his arms where they'd placed him.

He didn't really expect the feeling. And perhaps he should have. He loved his daughters, after all. Loved them with fervor, with a passion unmatched by any feeling he'd given anyone. But he'd _welcomed_ their births, even enjoyed making them. Not this one, not this child. Making him was a forced thing, involved someone threatening him and demanding the making. Watching Karen growing round with this child was a maddening experience, until every sight, every smirk she tossed at him made him want to scream from the memory.

But then Tamerie had touched him. She strived to comfort him, and it was the sweetest balm. Tamerie was the one who sang to him of his son's potential. She imagined his name, called him by it. One of her old gods, she told him. A fierce protector, winged, with fire in its eyes always burning bright with determination. "Khyriel's enemies ran from his battle frenzy, his loyal march onto the field in defense of the god he served," Tamerie whispered the stories to their daughter, until Kastiel's eyes grew brightly shining with fascination. Tamerie was certain of his own child's value, even when himself only wondered how he could see him and not remember who'd mothered him. Tamerie told him, "She is nothing. Certainly no mother! Not to this child, not to any of yours."

But still. He thought he'd only tolerate the babe. Thought he would tolerate him long enough that he'd use the child's affections against his wife, use him to prove his own self the victor, the winner in the game of control their marriage had reached. Perhaps somewhere along the way he might grow to care for him, he thought. But he doubted that more often than not, if he were truly honest with himself. No, he threw himself more into anticipating Tamerie's pregnancy, rather, enjoyed the precious curve of her stomach as his twins still grew in her. But not Karen, never Karen!

And then Khyriel was born, and the medics carried him out to him. They placed the baby boy into his arms, and he looked down towards his son for the first time. Looked down at Khyriel and watched him open his eyes for those first moments of his life. "My own eyes," he whispered down at him. Khyriel only blinked up at him, still wet from his birth so that the sparse tufts of black hair on his head clung wetly to his tiny head. The baby didn't cry, only settled there against his father's warmth as if he belonged and well knew it. He only looked up at the world, at his father - with utter acceptance and belief, as if all the months of doubt and anger and fear meant nothing at all – and Lucian loved him utterly.

He loved him from the smallest curl of wet hair on top of his head, all the way down to the wiggle of those tiny toes on the ends of such small baby feet. He loved him as much for every moment he'd wondered if he would love him, if he _could_ love him that much. He loved him just as much as he loved his daughters. And sometimes, in the years that followed, he wondered if he loved him even more. Because no one of his children ever needed that more than Khyriel.


	2. Chapter 2 -- Testing and Learning

He wanted his father. If his father were there, the knot in his stomach might not be so heavy a thing. But Khyriel only rubbed softly against the lower half of his belly, unobtrusive and furtive – to keep _her_ from seeing. Staying still and quiet and far, far from her notice was always better, and it wasn't so hard, really. Not normally.

Except today the big, dark men came into their home, moved among their rooms and talked, asking questions and prodding against every one of his small, hidden feelings – was he scared of them, was he angry, what made him excited, what did he enjoy, who was his favorite person and why? They prodded, cajoled and threatened him, even. Until Khyriel wanted to scream, to throw his head back and yell at them to only leave him alone. But he only stayed so quiet and watched them through his own dark gaze, and they finally left him alone.

The man with red, red skin, that almost matched the cushions piled against the sitting couches in the main rooms of the estate, he was talking to her right now. The pair of them stood nearby the doorway, and their anger at each other was a palpable thing. It hung heavy in the room, made him want to edge back out of the door towards some sort of nebulous safety. He wished yet again that his father had arrived in time for the men's coming there. But he was alone. Not even his sister had been allowed inside the space.

So Khyriel watched them all quietly, barely breathing as his dark eyes followed them carefully. He knew his mother wouldn't win against these men, whatever it was she wanted. They would refuse her, their intentions lined every one of the motions they made as they waited for the ending. The red man was merely the one saying what they all thought, felt. But the other two stood closer to Khyriel himself and he was well able to listen to them muttering to each other. Right then it was the dark-skinned human man saying, "It's almost unnatural. Toddlers are typically gregarious little things, into everything and always moving. He just … watches. If not for my sensing him through the Force, I would have thought him _simple_." He knew they continued to talk of him, knew he was in danger. If only he could see where it was coming from, who most threatened him. Was it any one of these men with their studied appraising eyes, all of them weighing him so carefully?

The last man was a burly Pureblood, darker even than his Pureblood compatriot. Khyriel thought he was more purple than red, even. The man turned to regard him again through large glowing yellow eyes. Khyriel found the man's appearance rather fascinating, actually. Even after his thick lips curved at the corners, so softly even Khyriel wouldn't have called it a smile. "No. This one is smart, careful. To have learned the finer skills of hiding at so young an age is testament. He'll make a fine tool someday, something useful." He seemed far more dangerous than any of the men, Khyriel thought. _He sees me_ , Khyriel thought. He didn't like it when someone really saw him. Except for his father and his sister. Those two people summed up the only real center of his life.

The human merely grunted, "He's been taught, rather."

"Only by need." The Pureblood's purplish skin gleamed in the low light of the room as he softly inclined his head sideways towards the two arguing figures, where she continued insisting the tests were wrong. "His mother's tried compelling him to be as much a Sith as his sibling. And learned it will not work."

That's when Karen finally accepted the men wouldn't give her what she wanted, not even to lie or coddle her through the disappointment. Something she most definitely was not accustomed to, either. Men fawned over her, gave in to her every whim and demand, stumbled over themselves as they went. But not today, not when it concerned _his_ son. She could practically hear Lucian's guffaws of laughter lifting into the air. It was all intolerable. She spun around to glare over at the boy, hated him even more when Khyriel only turned his dark head around to face her through eyes so eerily reminiscent of his father's she wanted to scream and beat him into the ground right where he stood. Instead Karen only clenched her hands closed so hard the nails dug into the palms. Her pale eyes looked like flecks of ice as she watched him, demanding again, "Then what's he even _worth_? All I went through, and he doesn't have a single speck of real ability? Nothing?"

The red-skinned Pureblood was slender, his frame lean and sparse. Only his robes offered an illusion of presence, all fine lines of purple and black as they flowed down to the floor and covered his body in folds of fabric. But power emanated from him, reached out to touch them all. The other Sith deferred to him, even, inclining their heads whenever he turned his attention towards them. Now he narrowed his dark amber-colored eyes on Khyriel's mother, argued, "Your elder child is remarkable, rather. You would hardly be the first who tried to maximize such potential through new procreation. Like so many before you, you have failed."

Failure. Khyriel knew that word, that it was a bad thing. His mother called him a failure practically every day, pinched and pulled his hair, punched him where no one could see, withheld meals and other sundry things he might desire, all to craft him into hating her enough to loose whatever thing she thought was inside him that might make him like his sister. And when it didn't work, every time it didn't work she railed and yelled and _punished_ him, called him a failure and swore how much she hated him. None of it, though - nothing, no petty cruelty or twist of his arm or any of it ever changed him into something he wasn't. _Lusiel is special_ , Khyriel thought. To Khyriel, there was no one as extraordinary as his sister, no being anywhere who would ever be so incredible – certainly not him. His father told him once, "No, not us. We guard them, we fight for them, we heal them and we watch out for them, and those Sith we love are made stronger and better for it. Your sister will always depend on you, my own Khy. Always."

Karen was rigid standing there, as stiff and hard-looking as one of the decorative pillars flanking the doorway. Stately and impressive things from some far off world Lucian had carried back to Dromund Kaas just to decorate his home. Gifts to his wife, during better days Khyriel once heard him say. Khyriel couldn't remember any better days, only remembered the hard look in his father's eyes whenever he chanced to look at Karen now. Dark looks that swore feelings Khyriel might have been frightened of, except that he was rather pleased the looks frightened his mother even more. His mother tended to stay far from Lucian whenever his duties allowed him to remain home with his family, kept herself shut away in her own rooms in the estate. Khyriel wished that's where she was at the moment, as he watched the glacier-cold stare Karen leveled on him as she declared firmly to the three men, "Your assistance is no longer necessary, then." Only the human man looked at Khyriel then, pitying the boy only so briefly a moment. But even he followed along behind the purebloods as they moved for the doors. And Khyriel was left there, to wait. He would've tried making himself look smaller, except he'd long since learned that appearing weak in front of Karen only exasperated her hatred and disappointment. It was strength and power she wanted from him, she yelled once. No meekness, no pitiful driveling!

So now Khyriel straightened as tall as he could. Not so exciting really, as the top of his dark head only reached barely as high as Karen's thigh. Although for a child only two years old his height and growth were actually impressive. Testaments of a good diet and extraordinary care, the medical men told his parents. But that didn't matter. Karen only ever heard them calling Khyriel "some minor flunky of a soldier someday, worth nothing but wearing a uniform just like his father." Which Khyriel dreamed of, rather. He wanted to wear a uniform like his father, go to far away places where his mother couldn't see him, find him or hit him anymore.

But she hit him now. The blow was sharp up against his ear and Khyriel gasped as the force of the sudden attack spun him on the heel of those soft-soled boots Karen insisted he wear that morning. There wasn't traction enough to keep him standing and he tumbled down onto the floor, in pain so bad his mother's screeching invectives barely registered, "Useless boy! So utterly useless! Do you know what hells I had to endure to get you and you disappoint me in every instance. I can't even look at you … Damn you, Lucian!" Khyriel tried scrambling out from Karen's reach, his small fingers grasping at the fine rug nearby. But Karen grasped the back of his tunic, ripped against the fine fabric there. The scream of tearing cloth was so loud in his ears and Khyriel yelped a panicked sound. Karen actually laughed, "He did it on purpose. His eyes, the sound of his voice … everything about you is his, not me. Even your damn hair is just as black. Oh, I _hate_ you!"

She was pulling him. Khyriel kept kicking, flailing to get away from her. But his mother was too strong, her grip too strong. Those servants who saw were rushing and ducking out of sight, refusing to see, to witness anything they would need to explain to the Master later on. Better not to see, not to know. None of them would intervene, certainly. Khyriel became even more frantic, as he tried reaching behind him to untangle her fingers and get them loose from his clothes. But she only tightened her grip, digging her fingers tight enough her nails scraped the back of Khyriel's neck and gouged deep. Khyriel screamed then.

"Mother!" Lusiel was barely bigger than her brother. But her voice was raised up high as she was suddenly there and Khyriel gasped out her name, reached for her frantically. Lusiel grabbed at his small fingers with her own, pulled on his hands to try and yank him free from Karen's grasp. But Karen jerked him out of Lusiel's reach again, and Khyriel felt trickling blood against the back of his neck. They were in some new room, one of his mother's rooms where he was never allowed. Why would she bring him in there …? She was fumbling through the drawers of one of those chests she kept separate from everything else in the place, that kept her things separate from anyone touching them, she insisted. Karen was still muttering about his hair, how it made him look so much like his father and how Lucian made it so dark and black then let it grow so full. "Damn you, Lucian! Damn you!"

Khyriel gasped out, "Loo …!" Then the pain! Sharp, burning – the pain was a brilliant thing against the side of his head and Khyriel saw some thick tufts of dark hair spinning off through the air. More pain and then there was blood, that spilled down the front of his face and Khyriel was screaming, screaming, and his mother's shrill cries went even louder, "I'll make sure you stop looking like him! I'll make sure, watch me!" Khyriel's screams caught in his throat as his panic went even higher and then there was pain at his ear, too. Blood splattered against his shoulder, along with the sodden weight of some part of his ear. Khyriel kicked out against the side of Karen's feet, then. Desperation beat at his chest, he was desperately trying to get away, to get her away.

And then suddenly he was flying, Khyriel was flying through the air! And he thudded to a halt with his back to Lusiel's front as her arms went around him, pulled him to her tightly. Khyriel splayed himself against her, threw his own arms out wide to cover as much of Lusiel's front as he possibly could even as the trickle of blood etched down the side of his face. He was cut, his scalp burned brightly hot with pain in several different places and torn and twisted tufts of his own black hair smeared through the tears and blood on his face. He gasped more panicked sounds but kept himself as broad and big as he could, his arms wide out to shield his sister, too. Lusiel's breath singed the burning edge of his torn ear, and Khyriel whimpered. Lusiel snarled over his bloody shoulder, her chin sliding through the sodden mess there, "You don't touch my brother! You don't!" Her small arms wrapped around him even harder, held him and he held her back, until they huddled there so close together that the blood spilling from the wounds on Khyriel's scalp rubbed off on Lusiel's face, too. Karen stopped, frozen for long seconds as she stared at her children protecting each other so frantically. She raised up her hand, the one still grasping tightly around the vibro-sheers she'd used against Khyriel's dark hair and head and she pointed the tip of the bladed device at her daughter, glaring as droplets of Khyriel's blood shimmered against the sharp edge of the blade, "This doesn't concern you, Lusiel. I told you to leave him! I told you … Just let him go!"

Lusiel raised up her chin. Khyriel felt it, felt her face moving against his temple and rubbing over the bleeding wounds along his scalp. He felt the gathering strength in her frame pressed so tightly against his back, the force of rage that made her small body quiver in the most terrible threat. She felt to him right then like those men had felt earlier. Dangerous, frighteningly intentful, and deadly. It all gathered there, like a potent, deadly pool only waiting to explode out from her and Khyriel waited, felt the trickle of mucous leaking down from his nose over his upper lip. Lusiel was tiny, small and so very young, but she charged her mother with the most terrible intention, glared over her brother's shoulder as she swore, "Not ever! He is _my_ brother! Mine! You stay away from him!" Karen actually stumbled backwards, looking at Lusiel through horrified eyes. Khyriel stiffened, his little body tightening as he watched the storm gathering there in his mother's eyes until they looked more like cold, cold slivers of ice than real human eyes. Like she wasn't really there anymore, even … Karen yelled madly, "No! Not you, too! Damn him to hell!"

"Karen!"

Khyriel almost melted against the floor as he looked over at the door and saw his father standing there, watched him through a wavering wet vision of new tears and sniffles. Relief pummeled his system, so strong he felt the desperate urge to loose his bladder there on the floor suddenly. But he stayed still, waited as he watched his father turn burning brown eyes towards the blade still clutched so tightly in Karen's fist. Lucian stood rigidly framed there inside the doorway, his uniform straight and neat on his body as he'd obviously arrived intent on meeting the Sith. Now Lucian's hands clenched tight into angry fists as he bit out the words, strained to give voice without losing the last of his own control. Because giving up his own control to Karen was always offensive. Lucian bit the words past his own clenched jaw, "My son is bleeding, Karen. Why?"

Karen huffed, "Your _worthless_ son! They told me so!"

Khyriel whimpered suddenly through the hardness of the air, the trembling threat of the moment. And Lucian moved abruptly, striding towards his huddled children. Khyriel was bleeding still, his dark eyes large and panicked there in his face and his small hands curled towards Lucian, reached for him. Behind him, Lusiel was still crouched as she remained curled protectively over her little brother, and Khyriel's own blood was on them both. Lucian's nostrils flared as he looked down at them, at his children splattered in his son's own blood! He bit the inside of his mouth, bit it hard to keep from screaming angry sounds and new and brilliant threats over at his wife. To keep in control. But he did reach down to grasp Khyriel, to pull him up and into his own arms. Lusiel slid around then, until she was huddled just behind her father's knee and they were both holding him, both his children hanging against Lucian's frame.

His father's rage was nearly a presence there in the room, like something alive and breathing. Not like his sister's, not like Lusiel's. But it was just as ready, just _there_ and ready to take on powerful form. Lucian's fingers stroked Khyriel's back, pressed him closer to his own uniformed chest. "Oh, I _know_ my son's worth, Karen. I suggest you don't try measuring your own against his, in fact. Just use that blade against your own self before I do it to you myself. It will be nicer for you that way, I think."

Karen gasped. She looked down at the vibro-sheers she was still holding, like she had forgotten it was even there. Her icy-silver eyes blinked wildly for several long moments, as if she simply could not understand what was happening. Khyriel sniffled again, turning his face into Lucian's neck in weary tiredness. He felt so tired all of a sudden, and Lucian's grip on him tightened slowly. Then Karen stomped her foot, glaring at them from across the room again, "You would not dare, Lucian! You know what would happen, what they'd do!"

"Sound any more like a madwoman, Karen, and I could easily convince your bitch sister you did it yourself. Do you truly believe there's anyone in this house who would say different? Come on, Karen! Screech some more, louder even! Sound like the crazed freak you really are!" Lucian actually leaned forward, his brown eyes so molten hard they might have been the raging confines of some seismic event on a distant world still torn and sundered by such things. Karen jumped backwards, terrified as she turned to run towards the doors to her inner rooms. Lucian growled, very much tempted to follow her. To finish it once and for all. But Lusiel's fingers were tight against his trousers and Khyriel … his son was almost limp as he lay there against his chest. His children needed him, more than Karen needed killing right then.

Khyriel felt the world spinning again, like he was flying. Or floating, maybe. But he could hear his father's voice, heard him shouting orders at the gawking soldiers in the inner hallways of the estate vestibule, harsh and demanding commands that they secure his personal wing of the estate from any intrusion, any damn idiot person who tried coming close enough to his children to even touch one of them. It was all a brilliant rumble under Khyriel's wilting forehead and against his tiny chest, and he squirmed to get closer to his father's frame, whimpering needful sounds. His father smoothed fingers over the broken skin of his scalp and ear, softly brushed the pain away with the tools he used in his work, until Khyriel was drifting, floating even more. He could hear voices sometimes. But he didn't understand what they were talking about, either.

"Did you see him, Dace? Scared as he was, once he was in front of her he was her shield and protector! He didn't even hesitate."

"He quite reminded me of you, actually. Not even his own snot and blood covering him kept him from his duty."

"He's extraordinary … You remember what I told you?"

"Stop, Lucian. I would not fail you, not in this."

Everything was far away. The sounds came at him like he was lost in a bubble and the sounds were mere vibrations against the walls. Lusiel liked to make bubbles dance over his head, used brief twitches of her fingers to make the things twirl and shine as he tried to catch them. Until she dropped them on his head to make his hair all slick and shiny with soap and water. He loved the game. The way the colors refracted from the sides of each shining globe as they whirled and danced above him, just out of reach … How had he managed to reach them?

"She'll make him go away, she told me so! I hate her, Da! I won't do it, I won't do what she says! She can't make me!"

"Shhhh, Lusiel. Calm, now. And tell me."

"She wants me to push him away, when we play outside on the terrace. But it's so far down! She says I should leave him alone, when he's in the bathing chambers that I should push his head under and then leave him there. Or walk him into a corner of the market place and just leave him where no one can see him. Just leave him, she says! But I won't! I swear it!"

The bubble shimmered, snapped into stronger place. Until the walls were thick and sturdy things, and nothing could reach him. His very own safe place, his own place. And Khyriel huddled there, in all the blankness and the quiet. Huddled and listened, wondering and mewling now and then. Wondering, dreaming and safe. But he was alone and he hurt. Bursts of pain, fear shivering through him and shaking the walls around him. He didn't want the bubble to break, to leave, so he had to face them all again. And then … suddenly … he wasn't alone anymore.

"Hello."

"This is _my_ place …"

"I like it."

"What are you called?"

"I'm not allowed to say …"

"Then I won't say my name, either."

* * *

Lusiel finally melted against his chest, loosing one last of those common snuffling sounds children made when their small bodies were simply taxed beyond all measure and there were no tears enough anymore that might encompass their upset. He sighed, smoothing his fingers so softly over the sodden cheek he was able to reach as she drifted into sleep against him. Her other cheek pressed into the medals and rank insignia on the front of his uniform, and Lucian knew the things would leave absurd marks on his daughter's face before he settled her into a bed. Because holding her right then was too important, letting her stay close to his warmth and the security of his presence too much a precious need beating at him, too. Lucian needed his children close to him right then. So he could lose himself in the illusion of control, that he really could keep them safe from every danger and every challenge.

What he wanted, was every one of his children right there, right then. But Lucian knew – he'd always known, like some Sith oracle might've whispered it to him, somewhere. But there were some things he would never have the chance to experience, he knew.

In the bed nearby where Lucian was sitting, Khyriel huffed another damp sniffling sound as he turned over onto his stomach and curled himself into a sheer ball, practically tunneling under the covers of the bed. Defensive, self-protective. Even in his sleep. Lucian's eyes darkened again as he considered the trailing path of damage done to his son's head, the patches of missing hair that marked where Karen had attacked him. At least he'd managed to repair the wounds, stop the bleeding and the pain. The damage to his son's psyche, though? Lucian knew he'd never ease his son's fears and worries, there in his own home even. Fighting … his children had been fighting for sheer survival for weeks, without him even knowing. She'd tried killing his son, her own offspring. Tried turning them on each other!

The terror of that thought ripped through him, tightening his form so much he felt the brief wash of vomit against the back of his throat. Lucian bit back the scream rising up in his chest, his control so very close to shattering into terrible pieces as he slumped there holding onto his eldest and leaned his head backwards. He wanted to cry harder than she ever would. Because if they could try turning Lusiel on Khyriel, on Karen's own children … What of his others, his own?

Kastiel, with her dark eyes so much like her sister's. But quiet and thoughtful so much of the time, too. So much like Khyriel Lucian sometimes wondered if they were rather more twins than not. Bonded somehow, even if they were far apart. The sudden memory – Kastiel holding her newborn brother, Khyriel, while Tamerie watched them both so carefully, and the way Kastiel looked up at Lucian as he stood there proudly considering them together, her eyes shining, "He's like me!" And the twins! Both of them so damn much like their mother, that watching them grow and laugh actually hurt Lucian with sheerest, keenest pleasure. No. No! Once they knew, once they saw them, saw Kastiel and the twins, his tiny Gaib and little breath of daughter, Camiel – they would make them fight, make them rip at each other until they were _all_ destroyed. The Hejarans would make his children tear at each other!

That image … "I won't allow it," Lucian whispered into the shadows, his voice hard and terrible. He would show his children the way, he would _teach_ them. Until they never looked upon each other as opponents. No loyalty, no rulebook or leader might tell them or convince them different. And certainly no gods-damned Hejaran. They would stand by each other, even as the Republic itself crumbled and the Empire shattered into the winds. But his own children would stand aside each other through it all.

He would make _certain_ of it. And the cold, dangerous part of his mind, that place in his mind that no one knew of or understood – not even Lucian himself, really – that part of his mind that was wholly Force - it slowly stirred.

* * *

Words.

Words repeated. Sometimes whispered against those tiny ears, sometimes spoken firmly and directly. Sometimes they were stories, offered to a youngling sitting on his knee or to the child so eager to welcome her father home. Sometimes the words were admonishments, directives and even castigations. Sometimes the words were awesome, sometimes they were quiet, sometimes they were even scared.

And they always listened. The words moved them, changed them. He might never have explained it, not said how the Force can work through any man. No Sith had ever caught sight of the Force working in _him_ , after all. They'd never even called him Sith, only took his brother away. Maybe it was such a rare thing, the words he could use that people listened to and heard and simply understood as right, correct and proper. As if the way he thought only made the most sense, is all. He called it teaching them, those men he'd pointed the way and showed the course.

But he knew it shaped them, that the words shaped his children. You didn't teach a child some rule to live by and expect them not to be fundamentally altered by the time he was grown, after all. For his children, though – they needed loyalty, security, people they could depend on when everyone else might fail them, a place all their own crafted of their own blood and their own way, and always, always together. He knew it, sensed it on some primal level far beyond anyone's reach. He never spoke of it to anyone else, never said what he was doing. Maybe because then he'd have to admit the fear that burned in him whenever he imagined failing them.

Then he repeated the words to them again, rather, "Never forget. There's nothing more important, than keeping your siblings from being hurt. Your brothers, your sisters … they're the only ones who will stand aside you, fight for you when no one else will. They're the only ones you can depend upon, and anyone who tries convincing you different, anyone who threatens one of you – that person is your enemy and good only for destroying. Nothing else is more important than that, than protecting each other. Never forget! Protect your siblings, as they'll protect you. Don't ever _let_ them be hurt."

And his children - they _learned_.


	3. Chapter 3 -- Make It Not Real

He heard the thunking crunch of sound, even through the glass of the window in front of him and over the pelting sound of the rain over his head. He heard it, saw the flash of blood, the scarlet wash of flittering crimson droplets that splashed onto the cushions and upholstery of the seating chairs nearby. His breath stopped, his throat was tight, tighter, as if no bit of spit could manage its way down the back of his mouth. Everything only became some hazed uncertainty, his world rocked to its core as its center was suddenly, vividly ripped away. And Khyriel stumbled back from the sight, into the rain itself, the downpour working quickly to saturate him utterly. He squeezed his eyes as tightly shut as any five year-old boy might manage. As if not seeing it, would suddenly change it. Make it so it didn't happen, that it wasn't real. He shook his head, shook it hard enough raindrops flung sideways in wild disarray and his black hair became an incredible matted mess against his neck.

But it was. It was real! He wasn't in his bed, wasn't in his room. He wished he was, wished it all away. But it kept moving forward, kept going along.

Something had woken him, startled him. Khyriel had opened his eyes very precisely, not changing his breath as he stayed there under the blankets of his bed without moving. He waited, listened the way he always did when waking – to know what could have woken him, what might threaten him. If anything. But there was nothing there. Just the most ordinary sounds, of rain making steady and regular rivulets down across the tall windows nearby and the low hum of air through the vents that kept the humidity out from the estate's rooms. He was all alone, even the guards were far away.

But _something_ had scared him awake. So he stayed still as he tried to see it, find it.

There weren't any guards nearby, but that wouldn't have scared him. It meant his father was returned, in fact. That Lucian was somewhere inside the house. The guards stayed close, only when Lucian was gone. When some mission carried him away from the estate and he wasn't able to stay close enough he could protect his children personally. Because all of the guards understood Lucian's priorities, knew that no single possession or person in the estate was so valuable as Lusiel and Khyriel, both. Lucian told every one of them, pointed, and cruel-sounding, "I don't care about any of it. The entire place could fall down all around your blasted ears – hopefully burying my wife with it! But if anything ever happens to one of my children … then I'll hunt you down myself, take you apart piece by damn little piece! I promise you that!" So the quiet, of the guards moving away from their rooms – that just meant Lucian was actually home. It was only a pleasing notion, certainly not some frightening thing.

There was a muffled shout suddenly and then a reply he couldn't hear enough to understand. Khyriel realized his parents were arguing, and he twisted out from underneath the covers before dropping off the bed. He padded across the room, pulling boots over his small feet as he moved quickly. He passed by the table where his school things were gathered, the tests his tutors were intent on showing his father. Khyriel knew such examinations only lead to new tests, as every new instruction and direction was increasingly focused and intentional. It wasn't only his intellect they considered. But also the growing shape of his body, the potential in his motions and perceptions, and then more teachers came, gathered in the estate to look and guide him. They always spoke words like "prodigious" and "he doesn't forget" and "notably skilled".

But Lucian just lifted his chin and thanked them all for their consideration, glancing towards Khyriel with strong certainty in his eyes. So much the same as Khyriel's own eyes, too. As if he'd never doubted what Khyriel might become, what strength and value he possessed. What Khyriel could _do_. Then Lucian would call for a new teacher to attend his son and the process continued. His young age was immaterial, just another sign of his utter exceptionality is what Lucian said. So Khyriel's days were composed of instructions in the sciences, mathematics and languages, not a few bit of histories of some multitude of worlds, various martial exercises and sparring matches, and even theological philosophy. Karen laughed over the latter, the little human that attended Khyriel's quarters to discuss myths and legends of beings that most probably never existed. "Only fools worry themselves over such nonsense, Lucian. Of course you would foist it on _your_ son."

But Lucian smirked back at her, "People believe. Control their beliefs and you control them. And yes. _My_ son will learn exactly what he needs." Khyriel actually enjoyed that particular instruction. Or maybe how friendly the teacher was, the way he didn't hesitate to scruff Khyriel's hair back from his face and remark how the gods – all of them, any of them - could only ever be pleased with him.

But Karen? She frowned and snapped her teeth - over every high mark, every wondering praise and every single achievement that Khyriel earned. Or rather that they always reckoned Lucian for the making and shaping of the boy. As if Karen was utterly immaterial, even irrelevant. Which wouldn't hurt so much if it were only Khyriel who earned such sentiment. But the Sith nodded at Lucian for his daughter's strength in the Force, too. They were _his_ children, both of them remarkable – and Karen was barely noted in them, not in their looks or anything they accomplished, and certainly nothing of their exceptionality. They might as well have bloomed entirely from Lucian, to hear anyone speak of it … and Karen seethed at the supposed aspersion. She was pettily harmful to Khyriel over every perceived slight, every sideways smirk Lucian sent her and every time she was overlooked. As much as she was able, because Lucian watched her so carefully. But she managed often enough, all the same.

Like the solution she used in Khyriel's hair so regularly. Because it always made Khyriel sneeze and his nose run, so that he breathed through his mouth whenever she insisted he slick his hair back using the gel-like substance. He knew she enjoyed his discomfort. Even insisted he accompany her public forays sometimes, just to see him struggle to breathe past the smell of the disgusting stuff. Lucky enough, such displays weren't common events. Mostly for when she wanted to pretend over something of an accomplishment, or at least parade her daughter along in public.

But still. Khyriel watched her, he listened. He learned quick, whether it was from a book or datapad. Or from observation, even better. There was security in understanding, knowing. There was safety in seeing the most pitiful of her threats before they became real. If he knew Karen was upset then he could react when she tried striking back. So he watched everything around him.

That was the only reason Khyriel slid softly out of the terrace doorway, eased his small frame past the tiny opening onto the outside balcony that neatly circled the entire upper level of the estate and connected both wide wings of the house. He remained close to the wall, as far out of the always-falling rain as he could. Even then several fat droplets of water splattered the top of his dark head, so that his hair was covered in a soft mist as he pattered closer to the windows that loomed against the huge entertainment room. He knew the dusting of water particles in his dark hair would only help obscure him from both Lucian and Karen in the room, looming against each other as they shouted back and forth.

"… took them from me! They were mine!" Lucian was agitated, nearly shaking as he stood in front of his wife with both his hands clenched tight into hard, terrible fists. Khyriel frowned, because Lucian looked half-broken as he said it. His father was angry. But it was mostly grief, soul-wrenching and hard. A terrible empty grief that tore against Khyriel's senses. Then his father looked enraged, even more. Lucian accused her, "Because of you!"

"What would you have done with them, then? Paraded them around, showed them off?" Karen tossed her head back, so that the coifed length of her hair shimmered in the brilliant wash of the overhead lights. She fell back on her natural beauty, the only thing she had worth any certain notice or attention. Just cozening motions, trying to convince Lucian. "It was nothing but a problem that needed fixing! I only handled it, even when you couldn't! I told you years ago - you should've listened to me! I made it right! The way it was _supposed_ to be, and we can move on now …"

Lucian stopped. He stared at Karen for a long silent moment, quiet. Lethally intent. The flashes from the electrical storms outside reflected in his gaze, so that his brown eyes glowed purple instead and he looked more like one of the beasts that thrived in the wilds past the city walls. A shiver worked itself up Karen's spine and she quailed back from him in sudden trepidation. Lucian gritted his teeth, and snarled out, "You are crazed. _That's_ why your bloody damned assassins weren't here to meet me. You don't have sense enough to know any better. Oh, Karen. You damn well should've known better, Karen." Lucian was cold-looking. Like some terrible reptile, like a snake poised to strike with poisonous fangs outstretched. "You're too late, now. You should run … fast as you're able. Run through the window, finish it at last. It's past time, really." He circled around her, stared at her - and Karen visibly trembled as she shrank backwards.

"Stop it! I hate it when you do that! It makes my head hurt …"

Lucian shrugged, "You were always too insane for it to work right. But I've _never_ hated you more than I do right now, never wanted it so much. Maybe this time it will finally take and we'll be done with this damn game between us. Just do it, Karen. It's the only thing to do, just go through the window and it will be all over. It won't even hurt."

"Stop! My head!" Karen bent over, almost stumbling as she clutched her temples between both her hands. She seemed to waver, very nearly seeming to turn towards the windows against the far end of the room. But then she fell against a small table, grabbed its edges with her hands as she gasped out several breaths. There was a loud wailing cry, and Karen grabbed up one of those interminable objects left scattered throughout the house. Just a thing, some token curio Lucian brought home from a long distant mission to a far away world. Solid stone and heavy, black as space itself – and she swung it around against the side of Lucian's head.

Khyriel heard the sound. It sounded so heavy, like the object itself. But it still seemed a screaming, ripping and tearing sound to him. It was the absolute end of everything, like the world itself was caving away under his feet and he didn't know which way to turn. He wanted to scream, to cry. But there was no sound but that terrible thunk of noise, no breath except the wheezing gasps Karen made as she stumbled back from Lucian's surprised expression, the shock on his face and the blood that burst out from his mouth and nose suddenly and the way he crumpled down onto the floor, his breaths desperate in his throat. Khyriel closed his eyes, he didn't want to see. Not anymore.

Khyriel wanted the world to be normal again, regular and normal. But the rain soaked through his dark tunic, until his flesh was cold and shivering and droplets of water etched the sides of his face in thick courses that kept any appearance of tears from showing. There were long moments, with only the pouring rain and the terrible fear rising up inside of him. He didn't know where to turn! Then more sounds! Rushes of movement, Lusiel's voice! Lusiel, her voice a strident demand over all of it. Just simply, "What did you do? What did you _do_?" The window! Khyriel's head snapped around when the window burst suddenly, when glass shattered around Karen's flying body as she came out through the window.

For a single second, just that singular moment of time frozen in his memory forever – Karen seemed to hang there in the air. She seemed to see him, through all the rain and the dark and the pounding silence of the moment. They stared at each other, two frozen combatants. Hating each other. Khyriel's dark gaze caught her, held her and said every bit of rage and hatred he had ever felt for her, that he would always hate her. His father's eyes, glaring back at her one final time. Karen shrieked, her face pock-marked with numerous and slenderest slices from broken shards of glass - maddened beyond all measure as she reached out towards him. To catch herself on the edge of the balcony, maybe. Or to try carrying Khyriel with her, even. Then she was gone. Just gone.

Khyriel took a stumbling step forward. Caught himself. He dropped his gaze down towards the balcony floor, as broken and shattered as the window Karen flung herself through. Just the way his father told her she should … Khyriel turned towards the terrace doors, stared through into the room where his father lay. Lucian was still wearing his uniform, still proud at the very last. Lusiel was there, her tiny form all huddled next to him as she yelled, "Don't leave me, Da! You can't! You can't!" Khyriel eased closer to her, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, holding tight to his torso as he listened to his sister ordering their father to live, demanding it. Knowing Lucian would not comply, knowing the crunching sound would carry him farther away from them than he'd ever gone before.

Lucian's eyes moved, trekked from Lusiel's adamant child-face over her shoulder to catch at his son. His son, so much like him. There was blood, Khyriel thought. He watched it slide down his father's face, from his nose and mouth and down over his chin and neck. There was so much red against his ear, that Khyriel couldn't tell if Lucian's ear was still there. But he knew his father saw him, heard the gurgle of words he tried to give them all muffled by the blood in the back of his throat.

Khyriel dropped down behind his sister, caught her up in his arms and held onto her tight against his own small chest. He held her determinedly, the last solid thing in his world. The only person he could really trust, really care for. The one person he'd fight for, when everyone else was gone or left him. No one was so important, not in his world right then. She was his center. And his father watched him, approving, coughing the blood out from his throat. Lucian stared at them both. He squeezed his daughter's hand where she held onto him, squeezed tight one last time.

He sputtered one word as he went away, as the light in his dark eyes finally dimmed. Khyriel didn't understand what Lucian said. He only watched, he always watched. And he held onto his sister, protected her the way his father would want for him to do forever. And Lucian died, just behind his last single gasp. Only one last time, "Tamerie."


	4. Chapter 4 -- Inheritance

**Brief note, here. I originally posted this as a blurb on the SWTOR "Community Content" forum, under the "Fanfiction" subforum. For some of you, then, it's a repeat of that particular insight into Khyriel's story. However! I did take the time to go through this particular chapter with a fine-toothed comb, to bring it into better shape up against the last chapter and the next one coming up. So it IS changed in several key places.**

 **Also note. These prologue chapters may seem numerous, and I'm sorry. Much of Khyriel's story is designed to better explain what's happened in other areas of my Destiny series, so a lot of it's designed to illustrate the how's and why's behind my other characters. Meaning, I can't just bypass a particular chapter in Trickster, because it leaves you confused when it shows up in one of the other stories, etc. That also means I do have to touch on some of the darker moments in Khyriel's tale.**

 **Again, for those who are uncomfortable with particular subjects, I do apologize. But I have to help you understand the layers to Khyriel's character. He's very much a survivor and its left him gravely scarred.**

* * *

Khyriel felt the slow slide of trepidation, nervousness tittering through the muscles of his stomach. He felt everything going tighter, like something had grabbed hold of his belly and started squeezing. He wondered madly what would be released from him, if he finally burst under the pressure. It occurred to him, that whatever it was the people around him would surely pay a terrible price for having made it. It certainly felt scary and nasty, anyway.

Khyriel looked away from the stuffy little man attending to what he'd described to Khyriel's aunt and uncle as "such unpleasant business", ignoring him entirely as he tried to calm himself. The fellow didn't even notice, just continued tapping against a datapad he intently described to the others. The room matched the man's practical and perfectionist appearance, what with his fancy coat and trousers all creased in just the right way. As if he belonged there, somehow. Another piece of furniture or equipment placed just so. There wasn't even color to his apparel, like the room, too. It was all gray with black lining. Almost like he was afraid of even the smallest whispered hint of color, as if some small bit of red would prove dangerous or offensive.

The man was nothing like Khyriel's father, obviously. He was so slight, for one thing. And his face was a narrow mess of rat-like features. He even had large teeth that bulged out from his upper lip. His father, rather, had been fit, well-muscled, and careful with his health and bearing. But Lucian had always surrounded himself with bright colors, too. Comfortable fabrics, soft and easy to handle. Pillows and rugs and blankets - all of them vivid and beautiful. Red, mostly. Because red reminded you how ardent, how brilliant life was, Lucian said. It was the color of your heart and blood, the very essence inside of every person. Red was his father's favorite color.

Here, everything was dark, moody. Shadows abounded in the corners, because the windows were kept ruthlessly covered. That's the only place he could see something fabric, was the thick curtains over the windows. And those were a morose gray in color and that made them look hard. Like rock. Softness seemed lacking, like it wasn't allowed. Rather, he bumped up against hard surfaces, rough edges everywhere he turned. Nothing was cushioned, nothing was comfortable. Even the books and datapads allowed in the place rested on rigid tables with sharp and terrible corners.

He hated it. He missed home. Missed his father. Khyriel wanted Lucian to come walking in the door, grab him up and carry him away from the dark rooms of this house, to assure him, "I told you I'd only be gone a short time, see? The Empire's officers have to demonstrate its strength, have to show those who'd make us bow down that we won't be broken. But that doesn't take long, now does it?" But remembering only made his stomach hurt even more, and he leaned forward slightly, fighting to keep his lunch from earlier from spilling out onto the floor. Khyriel swallowed hard, hard, refusing to let the nausea win against his will.

And then Lusiel was there. She sidled closer, so that her small frame was pressed solidly alongside his own. Her hand slid down until her fingers clasped his, wrapped them up, and they stood there together. Like one single solid unit of blood and bone against the lot of them, every single one of them who would try to crush and destroy them.

Lusiel was shaking, too, he realized. Although not so much with nervousness, like him. It was more that she was angry, and he realized he could actually feel it, it was so vivid. Her feelings were so vibrantly powerful he might have imagined they were like great splashes of color filling the space. As if they were things you could see, could touch. So real they became corporeal, almost. But he looked at the others, then, and knew with a start none of them had a single clue that Lusiel was absolutely enraged as she stood there watching them. They just kept arguing, back and forth, like a bristling pool of sharks fighting over bloody flesh in the water. Like they couldn't see the red that was Lusiel, burning brightly as she stared over at them.

Lusiel breathed in slowly. Then her small voice rang out, pure dulcet tones. Almost sing-song, like a bird's sounding maybe. Except that Lusiel's child-voice was firmly demanding, so much she almost didn't sound like a natural child right then. And never mind her tender age. She sounded like a Sith right then. Small, or no. She just told them, all of them, "No. That will not happen."

The others in the room stopped, so that quiet fell over the space like a smothering blanket. Just snuffed out in one whole swooping breath. Khyriel looked towards his aunt, swallowing slightly as he watched her beautiful gray eyes narrow dangerously. So much alike his own mother, he thought, shuddering. All pale hair and eyes, even if Karen's eyes were even more silver-tinted than Pella's would ever be. Pella was still a beautiful woman, and she looked quite as determined as Karen ever did. To rid herself of him, just as much, even. Khyriel wasn't so certain Pella would call them "games" the way Karen took to it at the ending, either. She seemed smart enough, to know Khyriel was well-practiced at evading such maneuvers. Child or not, he wasn't so simply fooled. Not anymore. His incredibly young life had already proved one long series of adventures designed to keep from "falling down" or "getting lost", in fact.

But it was his father that always intimidated Karen more than anything. Lucian would not be able to shield him from Pella, not in quite the same way. Pella was hardly worried over anything Lucian might do. Now that he was quite appropriately dead, she declared to them both. Lusiel actually slapped Pella after that brief insult against their father, though. Daring her to respond, her dark brown eyes glaring up at the woman. Now Lusiel stood adamantly straight, hissing at her aunt all over again. Just as she used to glare towards their mother when she was enjoying one of her more ugly fits, too. "Don't think you'll win against me. I am stronger than you, and you know it!"

Pella Hejaran's jaw clapped shut so quickly her teeth made a clattering sound. She even stepped back before she thought, her eyes wide with shock at the girl's bitter chastisement. Khyriel imagined she was confused Lusiel was even capable of such vehemence. But he could still feel the ripples of his sister's anger against the air, could nearly taste it; it was so vivid. Maybe because she was still pressed against him, still held his hand tightly in her grip.

But Pella was determined, too. So she caught herself, shaking her head as she stumbled haltingly. She condescended, "You must understand, dearling. Your own skills, as you point out so directly, are impressive enough. But his? He is sadly lacking. That doesn't mean we will not find a place for him! Our mining holdings on Bergeren can benefit from his ... talents. With proper training and guidance, of course. And eventually."

Lusiel's pretty nostrils flared. For a moment, she looked so much like her mother, who's fits of temper had proved incredible throughout the years, that Pella actually exulted. It pleased her, that the girl showed evidence of her maternal heritage, even if she was marred by her miscreant father's harsh coloring. It would not take overmuch effort, Pella imagined, to ensure she was properly influenced. It required a number of careful motions, however. Starting here ...

But Lusiel was far more aware of every one of the influences working on her. And her will was strong enough she picked among them very methodically. She glared at her mother's sister, well anticipating the woman's intentions. "No! My father was a hero in the Imperial military. A healer and an officer! He would not want his only son grubbing in some ugly holes in the ground of Bergeren. Khyriel should be like him, like my father! He'll study here, on Dromund Kaas."

Khyriel stayed quiet, his dark-eyed gaze flowing back and forth between his aunt and uncle and their sycophantic grub-weasel of a lawyer, who kept trying to appear unobtrusive. He might have warned them, that their contest was doomed. They'd lost their father, they would not lose each other! Securing each other was essential, protecting each other was everything! They wouldn't lose, wouldn't be beaten! And Lucian taught them the way, too. He'd never trusted the Hejarans, none of them. He told them, "Pella Hejaran is worse than her sister. She's probably the blight that ruined Karen, even!" Their father always had a plan, told them how important it was they know it, know who to make use of when the time came. That's why Lusiel stood there so strongly certain. Even before one of the slaves ducked his head inside the room and tittered, even then.

Pella jerked her attention to the doorway, glaring at the poor Zabrak slave trying to get her attention, "What do you want?"

"Mistress ... there is an officer from the Imperial Army, who's insisting he be in attendance to the proceedings, here. Field Commander Dace Gredge, mistress."

"Field Commander ...? Are you certain?"

Khyriel's small mouth flickered in the briefest bit of smile when he caught sight of the officer, when Dace pushed past the servant to stalk into the room. Another, younger soldier followed behind him. An aide of some kind, most likely. But Dace moved like a veritable wall of masculine authority, his frame large and looming with a broad, powerful chest and bulging shoulders. He obviously worked his body hard, and the scars bisecting his face showed a singular tendency to determination on the battlefield that often won confrontations before they'd even begun. Dace had long respected Lucian Phyre, if only because you respected the man who stitched close the tears in your flesh there in the field. But then Lucian saved Dace's brother, too, after he was injured by rebellious slaves in a nobleman's household nearby the Citadel. Left to heal on his own, after the man angrily denounced the damage caused by the fighting in the hallways of his personal estate, young Aldous would have eventually succumbed to the rot eating away at his thigh.

Except Lucian determinedly worked over the soldier, hours of sweat and panting effort that he devoted to saving the young man's life. And Dace's brother sported a cybernetic leg so perfectly integrated there were precious few who even recognized the limb was false. Dace provided Lucian with regular protestations of gratitude but the medical officer disregarded any notion of debts owed, "It's my place, it's what I do. That's all."

Today, Dace would fulfill his own duty to the man he eventually called a friend. The man he fought for, as much as any one of the Empire's Sith. He always said Lucian was a leader, a man to follow and listen to. And he'd promised him this much, promised he'd see it through to the end. He wouldn't fail. So he boomed out imperiously as he came through the door, "I would hope the certainty of a minor slave to your whims suffices, yes. I am here to attend the legal directives of Colonel Lucian Phyre, in regards his children by his wife, Karen Hejaran."

Their uncle, Goran – he only gaped, his mouth hanging wide as if he was some grotesque bird waiting for regurgitated sustenance to be shoved down his throat. Lusiel curled her nose in delicate disgust as she regarded him. Especially when he was stupid enough to actually splutter, "But ... you're interfering! This is family business!"

Dace lifted his eyebrows towards the fat man, surprised. "Are you saying Lucian Phyre wasn't accorded the respect of family, that you'd disregard those legal measures he took to secure his children in the event of his passing?" He lifted a hand in warning when Goran very nearly spoke again. "Be careful what you say in response, mind you. If you make an open denouncement of familial ties, any claim you might have to Lucian's estate, including whatever decisions might be made for his children, could be voided entirely."

Pella delicately laid one pretty hand against Goran's thick elbow. She sniffed loudly. "Karen was my sister, in fact."

"Indeed. And her marriage to Lucian Phyre accorded tremendous financial and social resources to his wife. He was an accomplished officer and a wealthy man all on his own, in fact. Karen Phyre brought nothing to their marriage but her womb, I do believe. And Lucian disdained even that, towards the end, yes?"

Pella glared mightily. Khyriel thought she looked very much like one of those mythological lizards that spat plumes of fire as she stared across the room towards the military man. Like a dragon. Or one of the old Mandalorian mythosaurs, maybe. She snarled at Dace, "How dare you."

Dace shrugged, nonchalant. "You might be surprised." He turned crisply towards the children, nodding carefully at Lucian's daughter. He'd seen the girl many times over the years, mostly in passing as visited Lucian in the residence he'd shared with his wife and children. He knew Lusiel was tested by the Sith as early as one year-old and proved powerful enough they watched her with fascinated concern since then. And standing there with that incredibly stiff stance, steely spine and prideful countenance, Dace was suddenly reminded of the most powerful Sith he'd ever served. Reminded strongly enough he didn't hesitate to proffer subservience to the child right here, too. Only seven years of age or not, the girl practically reeked of power.

And all of it was focused on protecting her younger brother at the moment. She might have been a looming Garu-bear protecting a cub, the sense of dire repercussion should any of them move wrongly was that strong. Dace lowered his chin in deference, "My lord, there are several more tests you will need to endure before your presence on Korriban is expected. Until then, these legal matters must be attended."

Khyriel felt Lusiel's grip on his hand tighten. Silently communicating her never-ending support, like always. That she'd never give up on him. Never. He looked up at Dace, standing as certainly next to his sister as she stood straight and sure. Showing none of the anxiety, not a single sign of the nervousness that still slid coldly along his spine. Because they weren't allowed to understand even a hint of his sister's vulnerability, that harming him could break her apart. They needed each other, loved each other. They'd held each other over their father's wrecked body, as the wind from the broken window Karen flung herself through whipped around them. They cried with each other - not with anyone else, not so any others could even see.

Khyriel even growled at them when they approached, at the servants and the more official enforcers and investigators alike. He growled at them all, angrily insisting they stay away. "Don't touch her! You don't lay a single finger on my sister! Get back!" They all hesitated to approach through the vibrant obstacle Khyriel made, there. They only implored him, pleaded. Until he finally turned to his silent, grieving sister, and prodded carefully. "Lou, I need you. Don't let them take me out of here." She'd moved to protect her brother, and that became her only real mainstay in the weeks that followed. She loved Khyriel vividly, powerfully. Through their father dying, maybe especially since then. His death, anyway, seemed to heighten the intensity of her emotions towards him.

Dace watched them now, understanding what the investigators had seen during the messy altercation in that house. Lusiel was fiercely protecting the last person she truly adored, having lost someone so precious as her father. He imagined her a ruler among the Sith, with that sort of nearly violent fervor, and marveled at the ferocity she'd give anyone who threatened those she claimed as her own. And Khyriel? It astounded him a boy not even six years of age yet could so easily discern how to guide and coerce someone as strongly powerful as a Sith, to use against her those feelings most important to her.

Not that he doubted for a moment how protective the boy was, either. He sensed Khyriel's manipulations were grounded in a care for Lusiel just as potent as anything she felt for him. The pair of siblings would prove incredible together, given time. And Gredge was tasked to see they remained so tightly bound together, as Lucian had directed him. So now he pointed over at Karen Hejaran's sister and her husband, visibly seizing charge of the proceedings. "Make no mistake. The girl's place on Korriban is more certain even than my title and rank. She _is_ a Sith, and you will not forget to show her the respect she's due. Do you understand?"

Pella frowned uncertainly. Dots of perspiration glistened against the pretty curve of her eyebrows as she lowered her head. "That has never been in doubt, actually."

"Of course not. Instead, you disregarded her as she pointed out the patently obvious. That her younger brother _will_ remain on Dromund Kaas, that he _will_ attend the same academies their father did, and that he _will_ eventually take his place among the ranks of the Imperial military. Or do you intend to continue disrespecting her so utterly?" Gredge lifted a hand, waving behind him towards the other, younger officer wearing a captain's bars, who quickly held out a datapad for his superior to refer to as he began dictating, "Contained in this recording is the articulation of those legal directives Lucian Phyre made in regards his children. His entire wealth and all his assets – except for those minor investments and allocations duly recorded … all of it will be ceded to _Khyriel_ Phyre upon reaching his majority. _I_ will personally oversee the trust until he's eighteen."

Goran gasped, "Are you saying we get nothing? But ..."

"If you agree to provide living arrangements for Lusiel and Khyriel when their training allows, you'll receive adequate allotments to provide for their care, yes. And some stipends aside, too. But only so long as they're cared for. You're lucky, in fact, to even be accorded that much regard. For sake of your shared blood, is all." Gredge glared towards the pair, "I will personally oversee his training and instruction. But make no mistake. The wealth is Khyriel's and it will remain his! I'll see to its distribution. In the event I'm incapable of fulfilling my duty, the responsibility falls to my brother, Captain Aldous Gredge, currently commanding the Imperial cruiser, Resolution." Pella was fuming. Dace was actually humored by the reddening of her features, thought the flushing of her face made her look more grotesque than attractive. It pleased him, in fact. The bitch's sister killed his friend. This was quite as close to retribution against Karen Hejaran as he could hope for, and it felt damned good.

Pella almost spit out, "What about Lusiel? She gets nothing?"

Dace shrugged. "The Sith rule over us all. She will want for nothing, not ever."

Lusiel tapped her small foot against the hard stone of the floor, lifted her chin like the autocratic Sith lord they all sensed she would be someday. "Khyriel is _mine_. Whether I'm on Korriban or not, that will not change. I won't allow my brother to be denied what he's due."

"That is what is in no doubt, here, my lord. I assure you, I will not fail either one of you." Dace eased himself to his full and impressive height. He towered over the children that he stepped boldly in front of, silently asserting the protection they'd possess of him. "If you refuse care of the children, they will leave with me immediately. Choose now. But make it quick. I have other duties to attend."

Goran almost spun on his chunky feet, like he was a fat child's toy twisting in circles against the ground. He glared at rat-faced lawyer, nearly spitting agitated demands, "Do something! They are ours, our family's to decide what to do with! Fix this!"

The little man turned pasty white in reaction. He glanced over at the officer standing so straight and tall in his gray and black military uniform, but then looked down at his own datapad, grasping at the thing like it would suddenly blink and provide him a comfortably safe response. "But sir! These documents are very specific … we might challenge the directives, but it would surely require years. And there are provisions here …" The man gasped out, "They're supported by Sith sanction! By a member of the Dark Council, even! There's no way to overturn it!"

Goran snapped his head around to glare over towards a now smirking Dace Gredge. Dace asserted, "You can commence with your dispute. But that only means I'll take the girl and the boy tonight. As I said, decide quickly."

Pella looked tiny next to her husband. But the simple touch of her hand on his elbow was enough to keep him quiet. As if he was a stringed puppet, and she cut the strings that controlled his mouth. She lifted her chin stubbornly, "We are the only family the children have left. They will not want for anything." Pella frowned as a strange look skittered across Dace's face, wondered at the man's thoughts and intentions. Perhaps he had anticipated their refusal, of gaining the children's subsistence for himself, for himself to spend.

Not that it changed much, in the end. They were going to be forced to contend with both of the children. Lucian Phyre had neatly shielded his son, given him worth and value no one of them had ever anticipated and regardless of their own plans and intentions. Pella stared coldly towards Karen's boy child, the one she'd cried and whined was an utter failure. And Karen was right, since every single test was clear enough. Khyriel didn't possess any abilities of his own. Nothing at all like his sister, no matter they shared coloring.

Worse, he looked exactly like his father. Pella had hated Lucian Phyre passionately. Almost as much as Karen had, although her sister had to live with the man, too. It was Lucian who'd destroyed Karen. She didn't care what anyone told her on the subject. If it wasn't for Lucian and his obscene obsession with some minor slave bitch, and her pathetic brats, then Karen would have never died so baldly, so bloodily. It was almost enough for Pella to wish she could have personally ripped those runts apart. They'd died too easily, she thought. Pella would have to content herself with punishing Lucian's brat son, instead. Oh, he'd pay. For every slight, every insult and cold look and determined refusal Lucian made over the years to accede to their control. For all of it. Khyriel would be a quivering mess by the time she was done with him.

Khyriel saw Pella smile at him, the slow promise in the twist of her lips as she stared over towards him. For only a moment, he shook all over again. And then the knot in his stomach finally burst. He actually felt it, like it was a spreading blanket that gradually filled him up inside. Until he was full and warm, and he understood. He felt it.

Certainty. That he'd be hurt. That these people weren't to be depended upon, counted on, for anything but pain and upset.

Knowledge. That he had no family, not here. No one, except for the sister his father had given him, entrusted him to, and made him promise to attend and protect. The rest of them were good only for rotting in his hatred.

And determination. That the witch who shared his mother's blood was an enemy who would never be allowed to break him. He'd win over her if he did nothing else, ever.

Khyriel was ready for the fight.

* * *

 **And for those wondering. Yes, Lucian planned his legal dispensations very, very carefully. Those "allocations" Dace Gredge describes so off-handedly are very specific, to care for and provide for Lucian's other children and Dace is well aware of all Lucian's offspring. The vast bulk of Lucian's wealth went to the one of his children he thought the MOST vulnerable, is all.  
**


	5. Chapter 5 -- It Hurts

**Please note: There are several allusions here, including descriptions of violent child abuse and some brief mention of sexual activity by a minor. If these subjects are uncomfortable for you, please bypass these particular scenes.**

* * *

The murk from the dimming lights glowed over the dining room, almost a sickly yellow tinge that was designed to discourage any real lingering over the meal, there. Pella most certainly did not wish the cloddish hangers-on she was forced to call family and friends, with all their cozening and oozing, sycophantic desire for attentions their always-open purses. Not when the day was slowly coming to an end, especially.

Especially not day like this one, with _the boy_ once again cluttering the rooms and hallways of the estate. Pella suffered foul moods and an even more sour stomach whenever he was loosed once again from whatever training regimen that gods-awful Gredge had directed him along. Although there was always so much more training for Khyriel, too. As if Gredge begrudged them _any_ influence over Khyriel at all, deliberately foisting him into some new academy or teacher's guidance that kept him far from the Hejaran estate.

The subtle insult never failed to grate on her. Pella slid a hard glance towards Khyriel now, glaring at the back of his dark head as he leaned closer to better hear whatever the young noblewoman sitting aside him at the table was saying. Pella clenched her fists, considering the fine twist of his collarbone and the corded tendons of his neck as he was turned aside. Khyriel's frame avoided that peculiar gangliness typical of a boy his age. Everything was in well-proportioned shape, the fit form of a youth who's days were as likely to find him in a training arena, pitted against martial opponents waving blades back and forth, as in a lecture hall overseen by staid instructors. It was so hard to believe him only fourteen years.

 _He is an exact replica of his father_ , Pella thought. And just like his father, Khyriel attracted attention from anything feminine that happened to catch sight of him, too. They watched him, giggling and smirking at him from behind their hands. The way Karen once looked towards Lucian's back across the wide rooms of whatever party or gathering attracted the both of them, too. So it sickened Pella, every time she saw the females smiling and flirting with her nephew. And that's why her fingers tightened so strongly she left moon-shaped marks in the fleshy part of her hands alongside either edge of her dinner plate. Khyriel knew it, knew it bothered her. He knew! Of course he did! Khyriel slanted a slow smile in her direction and Pella's lips compressed into a thin line. He eyed her as he ghosted another whispered comment in the girl's ear and rasped a knuckled caress across her knuckles with his fingers. _Damn him_ , Pella seethed.

Khyriel watched, he saw so much more than Pella would have ever allowed or approve. Whatever she tried hiding, whatever she tried obscuring. Even as a child around the corner, keenly observing just enough that he avoided her ire and dodged her meanest slaps and shoves with the most nimble reflexes. Pella always lost her temper in their game of wills, which he laughingly told her proved how easily he "made her" – made her react, made her feel, made her tirade and throw things. He was only ten that time, and the fact they were in public didn't stop her from shrieking into another violent fit. Goran swung a fist at the side of Khyriel's head, trying to calm her. It still made her smile, remembering the way the boy tumbled head-first into a table right there at a vendor's stall in the market. Oh, yes. Handling Khyriel properly was an endless chore. Absolutely endless! So much a struggle, until Pella finally found the means. Finally!

All it took was a whisper in his tired, little ear, too. Just a whisper, what she would say to Lusiel if he ever bothered describing what lead him to the doctor's care that day. And really. So what if Goran had mishandled him? Khyriel would be better for their direction and guidance, at the least. The boy should be grateful, should be glad they accepted the responsibility for him. He should be glad for what they gave him, the strength they instilled in him! That's what she told him, as he lay there, bruised and pushing pained breaths past his broken ribs.

It just shamed Khyriel, knowing his father was actually forced into making him. That Lucian never wanted to have him – not him - that he only ever used him as a blighted remonstrance against Karen, in fact. Khyriel turned his bruised face away from them, then, hid his blasted features so similar to Lucian's against the hospital bed rather than face them. And he never spoke of the incident to his sister, either. Never told her how it was Goran's knees digging heavily into his chest as they forced bits and pieces of his father's ribboned awards down his throat, that the violence and Goran's weight, his own desperate struggles just to breathe were what made for his ribs to crack and splinter. That if it wasn't for the sudden alarms of the fire two levels below them, Khyriel would have suffocated there on the terrace of the estate that day.

But Khyriel never risked Lusiel learning the truth of his birthing. Like he was afraid she would abandon him once she knew the truth. And perhaps he was, perhaps he was that scared. It certainly left Pella well able to dictate, to control and to punish him. That was when caning Khyriel became a more regular routine in the house, when visits to the office ended with stripes lining the length of his back and bloody ribbons of his flesh finally became pretty badges Pella could smile to watch as Goran laid into the boy with the rod. It was a fine piece of craftsmanship, that rod! Pella even made sure it was made of flexible trimantium, deliberately using scrap material from the ship called Valor. The one Lucian himself served on during the Sacking of Coruscant, no less. So that Khyriel always knew, that every blow really was inspired by his father's memory.

Not that it broke him, and damn him for that, too. Khyriel remained obstinate, always defiant and ultimately just _better_. He excelled, in every class, in every training, in every arena that he marched into. And most certainly through every game of back and forth with Pella. Which was what made for him smirking at her tonight, too. Because he knew how easily bedeviled Pella was, by his sheer attractiveness. It wasn't enough that every report called him exceptional, that every teacher lauded his skill and verve and capability. He was Lucian's son, just as remarkable, just as appealing as his father ever was. As if Lucian himself was mocking them from the Void itself with every smirking glance and glinted look in Khyriel's own dark eyes. Pella was actually certain she hated Khyriel now. Even more than she had ever hated his father.

"Khyriel, refrain from bothering the poor girl with your trifling attentions. Truly, your eyes have scarcely managed to avoid wandering since that featherheaded nackwit of an admiral's daughter tried embarrassing us all about your lackluster performance in losing your so-called innocence to her. How perfectly amusing, as I recall," Pella crooned her derision towards the boy. The slow titters of laughter around the table was so satisfying, that she nearly let her mouth ease into a crook of a smile.

Except Khyriel only dropped his head sideways onto his open palm, leaning over the side of the table with a sultry smile that let the rumble of his own laughter join the amusement already filtering around the table. "My own memory of that particular evening's entertainment, involves Mirah – that was her name, mind you – but Mirah admitted to the room, that I pleased her far better than your own Goran's sloppy attempts to get her off alone ever did. Damn me. How did she put it, again …?" Khyriel straightened in his chair, snapping his fingers in the air as if suddenly remembering. As if he didn't remember anything and everything he saw, everything he heard. Pella fumed, as Khyriel turned to look at her. Both of them ignored Goran's spluttering hacking of his soup through his nose. They only focused on each other, like they were circling around a fighter's pit of some kind maybe. Baiting, swiping at each other … Khyriel even raised his voice enough the _servants_ lining the room's walls could hear him, too. To make the insult even harder, even worse.

He chuckled dramatically, "She said, even naïve and new to the game, that I was more thrilling in bed than your fat Goran could ever manage and she knew well the difference. I think she rather disliked you, Pella."

Guffaws of laughter broke out all around the room, then, and Pella surged so fast and hard to her feet that her chair actually fell backwards to thump against the floor. One of the servants rushed forward to pull the chair out from behind her so Pella wouldn't chance falling over it. But Pella never noticed, not when her face flamed red hot with ire and her eyes burned down the length of the table at her nephew. _He repeated the incident word for damned word_ , Pella thought wildly. "How do you dare …!" Stiff in his chair next to her, Goran was almost trembling with his own fury.

But Khyriel only watched her descend into the near fit with his father's lazy, sardonic smile slowly spreading across his face and his dark as sin eyes gleaming back at her like a warm pool of melted chocolate. Like he was utterly satisfied to have won another round over her. Because he really was, of course. "But I thought you wanted me to show the room how much fun I'm capable of, how easily I can manage the females around me." Khyriel turned to look at his dinner partner again, smiling, "Only think … how great I'll improve with years of practice, too." The girl actually giggled, her hand flying up to cover her mouth in pretended dismay as the sound escaped. Not that Pella cared enough to even glance at the chit, and never mind her pretty features all framed so daintily by blonde curls coifed just so perfectly. Nobleman's daughter or not, Khyriel was not overtly intent on any female with the prettiest of faces. Especially blondes. No, Pella knew this was a battle of wills alone, and she was fast losing it. Had already lost, even.

Pella shook with repressed rage, glaring down the length of table like a wild thing turned insensate, just incapable of any rational thought process. And damn him for _that_ , too! Because only Khyriel could produce such a terrible extreme in her. So Pella lifted one single arm, to point a long, aristocratic finger towards the boy, and she demanded, "You will attend me in the office, to discuss your vicious, unmitigated gall. Your damned temerity! Now, leave this table … All of you! Out!" There was a mad sort of scramble, the sound of chairs pushed back as the diners stumbled to their feet and moved towards the doors. Most likely, they only hurried to better discuss the scene in more private circles, to titillate each other with laughing gossip of Pella's most intimate family.

But Khyriel just rolled to his feet, looking bored and disinterested as he sauntered out the doors that lead backwards into the estate. He didn't appear anxious, he offered no hint he was concerned or frightened. And that lack of care or worry … Khyriel's sheer nonchalance was as grating to Pella's nerves as anything else he'd done during the interminable dinner gathering. She wanted to beat him right then and there! Just wreck him into utter pieces! But it was Goran who pushed past Pella suddenly, who shoved a large, meaty palm into the center of Khyriel's back with sudden and bruising force.

Khyriel actually grunted out a startled breath as he lost his footing only enough to practically fall through the doors that opened into the office where Pella conducted her business and investments. It was also the room where Khyriel most typically endured Pella's "directions towards appropriate deportment", as she phrased the so-called appointments. Khyriel only called them routine, rather, with motions well-understood by all of them. Except he didn't respond normally this time, didn't merely brace his arms against the yawning desk where Pella's datapads and other sundry devices were scattered and didn't bare his back for them to observe the marks of discipline into his skin.

He was growing older, taller and stronger. It didn't matter he was only fourteen years, still. Khyriel was outstripping his aunt and her brutish lug of a husband, his body stretching and shaping itself and his mind long since fledged and aged beyond his own limited number of years. Tolerating their controls wasn't so simple or easy, ever, but his refusal, his disdain - that was slowly, even surely ripening into real and open defiance. So Khyriel nimbly caught himself before losing his balance completely and then he spun easily around to face them both, his chin lifted and his almost-black eyes narrowed as he glared at Goran, "Careful of your step, Goran. Some might think you clumsy as well as stupid, and that's a terrible combination."

Goran roared at him, snatching the rod from its normal place against the wall as he stalked closer to the boy, "Bastard! You little bastard!"

But Khyriel smiled at him with oily satisfaction, "My father was quite unfortunately married to my mother actually. I simply wasn't lucky enough to be so classified, mind you." Pella shrieked wildly, her hands shaped like claws as she reached out towards him. But Goran was close enough to send a single rough fist flying against the side of Khyriel's face. The hit was heavy enough Khyriel could feel one of his teeth loosen there in his jaw and a cruel bruise blossomed along the bend of his jaw.

Khyriel grunted painfully as he fell sideways into the edge of the desk. Pella felt the most awful thrill of pleasing slipping along her spine, as Goran slapped his hand over the back of Khyriel's neck to hold him in place with his head down on the desk. The first blow of the rod onto Khyriel's back was the hardest Goran had ever made, sounding like a loud thwack in the slow stillness of the room, and Khyriel warbled into the smooth surface of the desk, his voice muffled and hurting. It was the only sound he made. He tried throwing himself backwards, actually, and knocked into Goran's rotund form holding him there hard enough Goran huffed in discomfort. Goran growled – he growled like a wild animal gone berserk in some forest outside, slobbering grossly as he raised the rod again. He hit Khyriel, hit him hard. Again, again. The blows against Khyriel's back were brutal, terrible strikes - thudding and cracking against Khyriel's lean frame with steady and uncontrolled regularity. Khyriel tried fighting, he tried. But Goran was too heavy as he pressed him down and Khyriel gradually slowed under the bitterly raging attack.

Goran grunted in rhythm with each thump of the rod onto Khyriel's body. And blood started flowing. Where the rod shredded Khyriel's tunic, just along the edges of torn fabric. First the briefest tinge of red dotted and leaked into the fringes of fabric. Then more, droplets escaping to saturate into the tunic, sliding down over Khyriel's torso onto his front. And splatters of blood that flew up into Goran's face, dusted the front of Goran's large chest and his sparse tufts of pale brown hair. Khyriel wilted under the lashing blows of the rod. He never cried, never whined – he did bite his lip clear through so that blood smeared the corner of his mouth. But by the time Pella became anxious Goran wasn't stopping, by the time she leaped forward to grab Goran's thick, brutish arm raising up the rod again - Khyriel wasn't moving anymore.

* * *

 _The water was purple, as Khyriel liked. It was the tree that was new, budding and new and shooting up there in the center. Straight up from the rock, even if Khyriel could not understand how a tree managed to come from a rock. A brightly red rock, no less. And water was not really purple, either. But it seemed to work in this place, until it was his own place. In some way, at least. His own place. Where nothing reached, nothing at all …_

 _"That tree is all wrong. Like it can't seem to grow properly-shaped. What did you do to it, then?"_

 _Khyriel twisted his head around to look at her, smiled, "Me? It's a tree in a dream, actually." She jumped over to him, just close enough he might have reached out and caught her around the arm. To dance with her through the space. Their own bubble of space, he always said to her. So many times they shared the brief dream together, because he knew she was Force-strong enough to bring them together like that._

 _She shook her dark-haired head, making the thin braids against the back of her head slip forward over her ears. Her skin seemed to glow like milky chocolate in the place, and he sighed, leaned close enough to her their shoulders gently brushed together. "Whatever you say, it's your tree. It bends and grows as you see it. So what's wrong?"_

 _Khyriel shrugged, "It hurts."_

 _She frowned, turning her face towards him, "You fought them this time, didn't you?"_

 _"… forgot to keep_ both _of them under control, just her. … Rather stupid, actually."_

 _"How bad is it, then? … How bad? Tell me!"_

 _He hushed her, his head canted sideways as if he was listening to someone far away. His dark brown eyes narrowed thoughtfully, "… She's promised me. Promised."_

* * *

The light hurt his eyes, and Khyriel squeezed his eyes tightly closed as he twisted his head down into the cushion under his face. He moaned when the muscles of his back shifted and burned, burned. It hurt and he panted through the pain, breathed and breathed. He drew in several breaths as he fought for control enough. Just enough to turn his face on the pillow to see the room, so he could look.

"Don't move so much, boy. It's going to require several more days worth of healing before you can be moving without causing yourself even more damage. The muscles were lacerated, a couple of ribs cracked under the pressure of the blows." Dace sat up straight enough Khyriel could finally see him, and he leaned forward to better frown into Khyriel's face, "Perhaps now you might agree to send word to your sister."

Khyriel scowled as he felt the burning twinge of wetness against the back of his eyelids. Damn it, he would so much rather lose himself in the dreaming again. It was certainly more colorful a locale, at least. Here, he always had to fight. Every motion, every word – it was always a fight. And he was just so damn tired of fighting. So tired, "No. Already said it, even."

Dace's jaw tightened as he climbed slowly to his feet. Khyriel examined the regular and almost square lines of the chair, everything perfectly ordered everywhere around him. As it should be, of course. He closed his eyes, ignoring Dace as the officer paced slowly there next to the medical bed where Khyriel was lying prone on his stomach so that the doctors could repair the damage to his back. Khyriel felt cold and weary, and just so very tired. He wanted to dream again, to find his friend who understood and listened to him. Even if it was only there in that strange dream place he'd had since he was so small. It was perhaps the only place he wanted to be right then. He mumbled slowly, wearily, "And don't call me boy, either."

Dace slowed to a stop as he turned around to look at Lucian's son. The one who only looked more and more like his father the taller and broader he grew. It was why he worked so hard to keep Khyriel out of that house, moving him from class, instruction, academy, training ground – one after another, until he was barely in the same space with the Hejarans at all. But Khyriel was growing even faster now, too much at this point to simply and easily tolerate the battle he needed to make against the woman who resented every glance from his father's eyes, every twist of his father's shape and frame, every bend of his father's head that sat there on his own shoulders. "You're too much like Lucian, Khyriel. I've tried telling you that."

Khyriel turned his head away, staring silently at the wall opposite from where Dace stood. Stared and breathed, slowly. "I won't let them win. I can't." He heard Dace sighing, knew the man was running his big, thick fingers through his hair. Not regulation cut, his hair. When he wore his own uniform, Khyriel swore he'd defy conventions over his own black mop of hair. Void's ass, if he would ever have anyone cutting along his head again. Dace dropped his hands against his sides again, "Your sister would …"

"I said no. It's _my_ fight."

"I'm not sure Lusiel would ever feel the same, however. Have you considered that?"

Khyriel squeezed his eyes closed again, grimacing where Dace couldn't see. Couldn't know. He muttered, "Yes. Considered, evaluated, weighed, planned out, measured and thought – all of it." What real value was there, in telling her the truth at this point? He was past being afraid of it, at the least. But his sister fought just as hard, just as terrible there on Korriban. Khyriel had few illusions, that the Sith were forced to contend with challenge just as ugly and terrible as anything in his own life. There was nothing worth envy, in the life of a Sith. His sister would fight and win, or she would fall and die. And the only difference between them, was whether he would be all alone in this gods-forsaken galaxy afterwards.

He would have her affection in the meantime, though. And damn anyone who tried taking it from him. Damn them to chaos, perdition, and every hell in imagining.

* * *

 **This chapter was very tough for me to put together. My initial take didn't include any real description of the caning, even. It was totally focused on the hospital scene, between Khyriel and Dace as they discussed why he was suddenly unable to keep himself out of the way, to hide from Pella's notice at least. But without the initial scene, it didn't seem to make sense to me, as if it wasn't really Khyriel anymore.**

 **But this particular take on the scene is still uncomfortable. So let me note, here. Khyriel is precocious and dangerously intelligent; I think of him as a prodigy of mathematics and order and control. In fact, when I considered him to begin with I was actually afraid the violence and challenge of his entire life, just to survive, would literally break him. It would be so easy to lose him into some label like sociopath or psychopath, anyway. So I _deliberately_ offered him helps and defenses to keep that from happening. But some of his attitudes and behaviors as he's going along just aren't typical for his age and experience, can't be given the struggle he has to make all the time.**

 **Hey, my daughter prefers Gaibriel's character. She says that Kyriel is "too OCD for her to like him". Me, I just want to catch Khyriel up and give him a huge and wonderful hug and tell him it will all be okay. I do love both my guys ... (But Khyriel is still my favorite).**


	6. Chapter 6 -- So Teach Me, Then

**This is the last chapter before embarking on the in-game story. It's rather short and might come off as a bit risque. So heads-up.**

* * *

Khyriel slipped through the doorway, glancing quickly in a circle around the training space. Trying to discern what risk lay inside, who was there to provide this next challenge he needed to overcome. But he stopped when he caught sight of Trainer Three, his nostrils flaring as he took in her lounging frame against the cushions piled in careless refrain there in the center of the circular room.

Everything else lay in shadows, just a single light that shined down over the cushioned floor in the middle. Most would come inside the room, see a beautiful woman sprawled in careless abandon across those cushions, and perhaps drool with eagerness.

Khyriel wasn't surprised when he felt his own body tightening in response, even. Not after these long months of such similar sessions with Trainer Three. He was well optimized by now to respond to the Trainer's merest glances, those more sultry looks she considered him with whenever he came through the doors of such rooms. Khyriel felt like one of those pets, the ones who panted by rote when they heard certain bells and whistles sound. Nothing personal, a minor reflexive response on his body's part. Just the simplest preparation for whatever would be asked of him in the next few hours, is all.

"Cadet." The Trainer rose up to stand straight, slowly so that her curves were well outlined in the low wash of light from overhead. The motion served to highlight her best features - the roundness of her breasts, the soft curve of her shoulders and the precious little dip of button in the center of her abdomen - there in that exceedingly tight dress she was wearing. Khyriel knew his pupils were surely flaring in the center of his dark brown eyes.

But he ensured that was the only discernable response to the woman's overtures, waited for some indication how she wished for him to proceed. He was under no illusion of control in this situation. And he refused to demonstrate the smallest sign of how much it disconcerted him, how bothered it made him to be at such a loss. It was his biggest failing, they told him. The near desperate need in him, to have control in every instance. " _You must allow others the_ illusion _of control over you. Show them how much it frightens you, though, and they win it entirely_."

The Trainer smiled, now. As smoothly as she did everything else, actually. "Well done. Would it be out of hand of me, do you think, if I admitted how much I do enjoy these sessions with you?" Khyriel blinked and concentrated on the routine of his breaths, rather than offer the woman any sort of verbal response. He did drop his gaze, though, let his eyes run down over her shape and form with slow perusal. Trainer Three was no human woman, something that surprised him when they made their initial acquaintance, that they would make one of his own trainers less than a human. " _Not every one of your targets will be human. Allow them to believe you want them, regardless_." As if he really cared so much to disparage someone non-human. It simply didn't make sense, to believe his own species any better or lesser than another. Khyriel preferred logic to form the basis of his ideas, practical, reasonable logic.

"No warm greeting, cadet? You're breaking both my hearts, mind you." Trainer Three smiled slowly, dropping her eyes playfully and actually batting her dark eyelashes. Khyriel felt himself slowly relaxing, decided the session was one focused on flirtation and banter even more than any real sexual contact. He reached out with one of his fingers to stroke the deep burgundy-colored skin along her jaw, a long slow stroke of his finger against the line of her jaw until she could catch his finger between her lips in a sudden bite. He gasped lightly, deliberately when she nipped his finger with her sharp, sharp teeth.

Khyriel smiled into the woman's gold-yellow eyes, "I'd never let such a thing happen. I swear it, each one of your hearts is safe with me." The Zabrak released his finger from between her lips as her head fell back, and she laughed lightly towards the ceiling of the room.

"I very nearly believe you to be serious, cadet. Again, well done. You've come such a long way in the short time we've worked together." Khyriel kept the smile in place on his face, if only because he was suddenly uncertain again what the Trainer was hoping to convey in this particular session. Such games were easy enough, games he'd long since mastered. There was no need to rehash such simple motions, no matter how pleasurable. And Khyriel suffered no minor belief his appeal was great enough the Trainer wanted him so much.

"And you're wrong, cadet." Trainer Three was watching him again, and Khyriel could not help the slight narrowing of his dark eyes as he considered her. She smiled at him, "I told you during our first meeting, that you were slated for these training sessions precisely because of your incredible attractiveness. Have no doubt, given the chance I would seek you out far past these rooms and in far more comfortable circumstances. Alas, I can only imagine how you would perform when you truly relaxed against a woman."

"That is not the design of this exercise today, however."

Khyriel stiffened when the new voice intruded. Not that he entered the room with any single expectation of privacy, either, because no such thing as private space or time was allowed in the academy. No conversation, no motion, no relationship was kept hidden within these walls. The Trainers watched everything, heard everything. Khyriel rather supposed monitoring devices were embedded in his very skin, to keep track of his every move while he attended to his training. He sometimes wondered if they'd ever allow him freedom from such things again, actually. Or if any Imperial was ever so free as that, even. But for now, he only turned to meet the newcomer, watched the man gliding out from one of the doorways set deep in the shadows against one of the side walls.

He was perhaps the most pretty man that Khyriel had ever set eyes on, with hair so blonde it looked like spun gold on the top of his head. The man's eyes glittered like the bluest stars, both set deep in his golden-skinned face above a strong, piercing jaw. And his body - a well-muscled human frame with a broad chest that bulged with shapely muscles. He was a woman's walking dream, Khyriel thought. Trainer Three hummed, "You're both so delicious-looking. A true composite between the light and the dark. I'm hard-pressed to choose my preference." But the model of male perfection only barely spared Trainer Three the smallest glance, before circling Khyriel in a close, intimate inspection, the cerulean blue of his eyes burning brightly as he perused Khyriel's own shape and looks. He grunted a small sound of satisfaction then, and reached down to cup the globe of Khyriel's buttock with a possessive fervor.

Khyriel flinched away from the touch, though, the discomfort sliding in a cold whisper up the line of his spine. He didn't want the contact, felt driven to remove himself from the space, the attention and most certainly any touching the man offered. He even slid a dark look towards the door he'd entered through. But both of his Trainers frowned. Three shook her dark, horned head slowly, "No, cadet. That is not the correct and proper response." She raised her chin warningly, "Your personal inclinations have no place in this room. Nor in the great many rooms that will come later, either. You must always exude welcome, desire, and willingness. Trainer Seven is well-versed in such situations, mind you."

Seven nodded slowly. His gaze didn't waver, stayed focused on Khyriel's tense body, gauged the younger man for signs he really would bolt. Not every student was capable, disciplined quite enough. But Khyriel's performance had always proved exceptional, and Seven had argued that the cadet's skills could only be refined, that he had the cold, calculating nature required of real seduction. Not romance, no. Khyriel was one of those select few perfectly capable of divorcing his emotions from the act only long enough, he pointed out. And Seven was determined to give him every bit of technique possible, break past every barrier, every inhibition. Until the cadet was a true artist in whatever bedroom he prowled. "The body is quite capable of performing. It's your mind, rather, which denies such chances, such opportunities. We will strive to retrain your mind, to show you. As Three taught you how to best please a woman, to know every nook and turn of a woman's form. _I_ will teach you every motion and nuanced touch designed to please a man, rather. I will show you how much pleasure it can provide you, in turn."

Khyriel struggled. Both of the Trainers waited, watchful and patient in those few moments as the cadet's mind swirled, turned the notion around. Seven had argued there was no need for force, or coercion, no drugs or other medicinal treatments, not with this one, "He's a born manipulator, in fact. He will accept refining that aspect of his own nature." So they allowed Khyriel that much time and space, small as it was, and Khyriel didn't hesitate to use it. His mind worked fast, methodical like the machines he taught himself to mimic many times over. Back and forth, what was proper, what worked and couldn't work, what pain was involved, what might upset or bother at him – he considered the first time he touched a girl, the first time he allowed himself to be touched. Frightened he'd be discovered, constant glances towards the door with fears Goran might come in the room and see what he was doing right then. But the girl was really not so much older than he was, and hardly so nervous. She pulled at his slender thirteen year-old frame with hard fingers, long nails digging into his shoulders as she whispered into his ear, "Shhh, hurry, hurry. Show me what you have tucked inside those pretty clothes …"

Was this really any different, he wondered now. Surely he would win something for himself, would win control. And wasn't that what he wanted, more than anything? His flesh wasn't anything sacred, really. What was sex, but a game, a play between two people seeking mere moments of satisfaction, satiation of a minor physical need and easily set aside once it was finished? The only thing holding him back, as Seven said, was his own mind that called it incorrect, the feeling that said it was strange and unwanted. All he needed to do was teach himself otherwise, spend precious moments learning new ways to touch and be touched. And in the end, he'd be stronger for having made every single move. He would win the control he wanted, even more than whatever prize they asked of him.

So Khyriel's eyes darkened into near slate black. "Then teach me."


End file.
